Nicolo grinned, trotted over and fell in alongside him.
“Any slower,” he said, picking up the pace, “we’d be walking. You getting too old to run fast?”
Damian, who at thirty-one was exactly the same age as Nicolo, shot him a deadpan look.
“I’ll call the paramedics when you collapse.”
“Big talk.”
“A hundred bucks says I can beat you.”
“Twenty times around?”
“Forty,” Nicolo said, and shot away.
Moments later, they finished in a dead heat and turned to each other, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear.
“How’s Rome?” Damian said.
“How’s Athens?”
The men’s grins widened and they clasped each other in a bear hug.
“Man,” Damian said, “you’re a sweaty bastard.”
“You’re not exactly an ad for GQ.”
“How was your flight?”
Nicolo took a couple of towels from a stand beside the track and tossed one to Damian.
“Fine. Some weather just before we landed, but nothing much. Yours?”
“The same,” Damian said, wiping his face. “I really like this little Learjet I bought.”
“Little,” Nicolo said, laughing.
“Well, it’s still not as big as yours.”
“Mine’s always going to be bigger than yours, Aristedes.”
“You wish.”
It was an old line of banter and made them grin again.
“So,” Nicolo said, “where’s Lucas?”
“We’re meeting him in—” Damian looked at his watch. “In two hours.”
“You guys picked a restaurant?”
“Well, more or less.”
Nicolo raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Damian said, “our old friend bought himself a club. Downtown. The club of the minute, he says.”
“Meaning, crowded. Noisy. Lots of music, lots of booze, lots of spectacular-looking women out for a good time…”